


A Mourning to Remember

by Hermy007



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermy007/pseuds/Hermy007
Summary: “It’s not forgetting that heals. It’s remembering.”~ Amy Greene***A revealing tale starring everyone's favorite ginger and brunette pair. It's been nearly a year since the defeat of Voldemort, but things are far from over.After a year of absence, Ron and Hermione return to Shell Cottage to help Fleur prepare for her upcoming baby shower.Old memories are forced to the forefront and painful discoveries are made. Hearts are broken—and healed again.****(Content based on ‘Deathly Hallows’ book, not the movie.)*THANK YOU to ‘Pottercast’ #226 and WeasleyMom for helping inspire this story.Finally, a big thanks to Danii for beta'ing the original version of this story!
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	1. In the Still of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron isn’t the only one who can’t sleep on the one-year anniversary of their visit to Malfoy Manor...

**A Mourning to Remember**

  
_There are many who don't wish to sleep for fear of nightmares._ _Sadly, there are many who don't wish to wake for the same fear._

_~ Richelle Goodrich_

*****

**_Chapter 1: In The Still of the Night_ **

Funny how screaming didn’t need sound for him to hear it. 

_Look at me_ _Hermione_ , Ron thought desperately, _just look at me!_

She did, and he recoiled as if he’d been slapped; her eyes were dull and listless, as if she had already given up. This terrified him more than anything else. 

_NO, fight it Hermione, fight dammit!_

“HERMIONE!” Ron continued to bellow her name, dragging his feet in an attempt to slow his captor. 

Her gaze lingered on him, until she was wrenched away by the roots of her hair.

Ron was thrown facedown on the jagged stone floor, and he stumbled as he tried to get up—he was still bound to Harry, Griphook, and Dean. 

“HERMIONE!” he sobbed, scrambling to get to the stairs. 

There was a deep throaty chuckle before the prison door slammed shut, plunging him into darkness. 

The hollow echo hadn’t yet faded before there was an awful, drawn-out scream that froze the blood in his veins.

***

Ron woke with a sickening jolt, chest heaving, his face coated with sweat. He stared at the ceiling, gasping, trying to reassure himself. 

_The Manor’s gone, I’m not there—not there..._

As he slowly took in the familiar forms of Shell Cottage, the nightmare gradually faded from the forefront of his vision.

“You alright, mate?” Harry groggily murmured from his right. 

“M’ fine,” he mumbled in answer. 

“Same dream?”

“Same dream.” 

Ron sighed in exasperation, crawling out of bed with the air of someone who had done this too many times before. 

Before, he was always the one asking that question; it had never been _him_ who thrashed in his sleep, trying to shove away the images that seemed permanently seared into his retinas.

Once again, Ron found himself admiring Harry’s stoicism; whereas he was still relatively new in his timeline of nightmares, the latter had been handling bouts with his demons, night after night—for much, much longer than him.

Of course, there were some notable moments where he’d observed Harry’s distress—but he still had a sinking suspicion that his best mate barely let on to the true weight of the burdens that he carried. 

Ron got to his feet. Crossing over to the door, he wobbled his head from side to side, like a dog trying to rid its ears of water. 

But the screaming continued to reverberate in his head, like one of those old Muggle records that was hopelessly stuck in the same spot. 

Ron paused, his hand resting on the doorframe.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Does it ever get easier?”

There was a brief pause, and he heard Harry heave a deep sigh. 

“I used to wish that, more than anything.”

Then Ron felt a steady hand clasp his shoulder.

“But now, after all this time, I’ve found that those memories help me live life more fully—they show me that nothing is guaranteed.”

Ron nodded, and there was a moment of silence.

Harry, inherently sensing his friend’s turmoil, pulled him into a tight embrace. 

When they released, Ron wiped his eyes and muttered, “Sometimes you sound like Dumbledore when you talk like that.” 

Harry chuckled softly as Ron quietly padded out of the room. 

Despite his cautious gait, the floor still squeaked in protest as he made his way down the shadowy hall. 

He poked his head inside the girl’s room, the door creaking softly on its hinges.

Ron spotted Ginny, resting in peaceful slumber, but that wasn’t who he was here for. 

He tiptoed to the other bed, peering down onto the empty mattress. His insides squirmed in anxiety; _where was she?_

He crept down the stairs, carefully maneuvering around the noisiest parts of the well-worn floorboards. 

Smirking, Ron remembered learning this tip from Harry and his sister—he’d heard them sneaking past their room more times then he could count. 

His smile faded into a frown as he moved from room to silent room—Hermione was nowhere to be seen; the bathroom, living room, and kitchen were all empty, empty, empty. 

He gingerly ran his hand across the grainy whitewashed walls, which smelled vaguely of salt and sea. This place had seen joy, but this place had also seen pain—pain in such staggering amounts that he wondered how the very foundation didn’t cave in from it. 

What would these walls do if they could—would they sob or would they sing?

An idea suddenly struck him. Ron hurried back to their room, ransacking his duffel until he found one of his infamous, itchy Weasley-jumpers. 

He paused for a heartbeat, quietly running his hands over the frayed but comforting fibers. With a decisive nod, he started to leave.

He half-expected Harry to question him, but judging from the soft snoring coming from the other side of the room, Ron knew he was on his own now.

He strolled into the cool, clear night. One look at the cloudless sky revealed faint hints of dawn beginning to tug at the horizon—sunrise wasn’t far.

Unconsciously, he found himself drawn to Dobby’s makeshift grave, as if it were some great cosmic magnet. 

It was on his way there when Ron nearly tripped over a figure that was sprawled on the dew-soaked ground. 

He squinted through the semi-darkness.

“Hermione?” 

Ron inhaled sharply—her beauty still took his breath away.

Her russet hair was fanned out like a halo—her face upturned to the pinpricks of light that pockmarked the gradually lightening sky.

“Ron?” She got to her feet, surprised to see him. 

“I had a feeling you’d be here.” He jerked his head towards the tiny tombstone. 

She sighed, nodding. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, I reckon that makes two of us.”

He plopped down on the blanket, and she followed suit. Neither spoke as they both gazed at the minuscule mound that was flourishing with fresh foliage.

Predictably, Hermione broke the silence.

“Can you believe that it’s been a year, a whole _year_ since the last time we were here?”

“Not really.” 

There was the massive undertaking of the restoration of Hogwarts and its grounds, and the inevitable start of a new school term for both Ginny and Hermione. 

Ron and Harry had instead opted to begin internships at the Ministry in lieu of a traditional 7th-year curriculum. 

It was determined, (and rightly so,) that the trios’ restoration of the Wizarding community fulfilled any and all graduation requirements that were previously necessary. 

Despite the generous offer, Hermione turned it down so she could finish her education “properly,” to the shock of everyone but Ron and Harry. 

Ron remembered shaking his head and remarking to her that she was (and probably will ever be) the only person in Wizarding history _barmy_ enough to voluntarily return to school—when it was no longer mandatory to do so. 

He did wonder though, despite her notorious and voracious appetite for knowledge—if there was more than just academic fulfillment at play here. 

After all, he had to admit that it was much, much easier burying himself in his Auror training and assisting George with the shop, then trying to sift through the emotional carnage of what they’d all been through. 

The memories seemed to stalk him like some rabid animal that was constantly and relentlessly nipping at his heels. 

He’d be able to swat it away for a bit, but when he least expected it—there it came again, hungrier and more demanding of his attention than before. 

Maybe, just maybe, he weren’t the only one trying to keep the past at bay. 

Hermione then interrupted his reverie.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” 

Ron stared fixedly at the ground, briefly registering the swirling emotions that threatened to yank him under. 

He didn’t want to burden her with his baggage; Merlin knew she had plenty to sort through herself. 

“I dunno, I’ve just had a lot to think about, I guess.”

“I suppose having your first niece or nephew would give you a lot to process.” 

“Yeah.” 

Fleur was scheduled to have the child within the next few months, and had asked for Ron, Ginny, Hermione, and Harry’s help to prepare the house for the baby shower, which was to take place the following afternoon.

Ginny, being on Easter holiday, leaped at the opportunity to both visit family and spend some quality time with her fiancé—the latter coming in the form of snogging him at every available moment.

Ron and Bill had rolled their eyes, but Fleur had giggled and trilled, “ ‘Ve vere like that too, Villiam, don’t you remember?’ ”

During the day, it seemed so normal—bordering on mundane; Fleur always kept everyone working with a seemingly infinite list of tasks to complete. 

But as night crept in, it inevitably dredged up a slew of flashbacks—accompanied by a violent torrent of emotions that only deliberate activity could drive to the far corners of his periphery again. 

This night in particular had him seriously evaluating if the daytime festivities were truly enough to merit him returning here.

As if she read his mind, Hermione whispered, “Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to come back here.”

“Why?” 

With a wry smile, Ron continued, wanting to keep things light. 

“Miss-‘10-Outstanding-O.W.L.s’ couldn’t bear to tear herself away from her all-important N.E.W.T. studying?”

She playfully punched his arm in response, before her expression became solemn.

“Well, you do realise that it was right around this time when we just returned from the—the Manor?” 

She paused momentarily, her brows knit together in concentration.

“If I remember correctly, by this time we would have just arrived.”

Ron shifted his attention to the beach, and in his mind, the blanket underneath him and the grave in front of him vanished. 

_The bitter, briny wind bit into his numbing skin, his stomach still doing flip-flops from the abrupt Apparition._

_His feet start to sink into the soft, swirling sand from the weight of supporting a deathly pale and unconscious Hermione…_

“Ron, what’s wrong?” 

“What?” 

With a mental lurch, the trance was broken, and he found himself looking back at present-day Hermione—who in turn was surveying him with deep concern.

“You look awful, like you just saw a ghost or something.” 

He unclenched his hands, which he’d unknowingly curled into fists so tight that he could see his blanched knuckles protruding out of his flesh. 

“You’re shaking Ron, what’s the matter?” 

Hermione looked pained, miserable even.

He hastily wiped at the moisture that had collected in the corners of his eyes. 

“It’s nothing, really. I’ll go now, I just wanted to know where you were.” 

He started to get up, but she brushed his hand and he halted in mid-movement.

“Please stay.” 

Her eyes pleaded with him, and he allowed her to pull him down into a sitting position again. 

There was another silence before Hermione quietly remarked, “You know, I never got the chance to truly thank you.”

He shrugged sheepishly.

“I know you’d have done the same.”

Hermione smiled wistfully as she looked into the distance. 

“I really don’t remember a lot from that night—just quick flashes, really.”

”I recall getting here, and you taking me to one of the rooms—I didn’t want to let you out of my sight, if memory serves.”

Ron chuckled darkly. 

“No, you didn’t.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably. 

“It was nothing, Hermione. It was just instinct, you know?”

“I did what I did because it was just the right thing to do. If there was anyone who was the hero that night, it was you.”

“Don’t say that, Ron. Just don’t.”

Hermione stood up, brushing the clinging grass off her pajamas, avoiding his questioning gaze. 

“I—I think I’ll turn in, it’s been a long day.”

He reluctantly got to his feet as she gathered the blanket into her arms. 

They silently traipsed back inside, each one thoroughly enveloped in their own mangled mass of thought and memory. 

*****


	2. A Fireside Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Hermione decide to have a heart-to-heart, and it changes them forever...

_ You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control. _

_ ~ Megan Chance _

*****

**_Chapter 2: A Fireside Chat_ **

  
  


They entered the small, yet cozy sitting room.  Ron paused before the stairs, turning towards her thoughtfully. 

“Could you wait a moment, Hermione? I have something for you.” 

She sank into the slightly sagging couch, wrapping herself in the comforter. 

The fire was kindled with a lazy flick of Ron’s wand, while he reached into the pocket of his jumper. 

“I found this a while ago, and I thought of you.” 

He pulled out a necklace that was endowed with a fine gold chain, and at the bottom was a small scalloped shell. 

Ron offered it with trembling hands, and her finger traced the outline of her initials that were delicately engraved onto the smooth surface. 

“It’s absolutely perfect, how did you—?”

“Trust me, it wasn’t easy, I must have ruined a dozen before I finally got it right. May I?”

Nodding, Hermione obediently pulled her hair back and turned around. 

In a heartbeat, he undid the clasp with tremulous fingers and got it around her neck.

Then his breath hitched. 

“Bloody hell Hermione, what is that?”

His index finger carved a path across her shoulder blade, and he saw tiny goosebumps starting to rise from his touch. 

Quickly realizing what he was looking at, she jerked herself out of her reverie and snapped, “It’s nothing, Ron!” 

But she wasn’t quite able to meet his probing gaze.

“D’ you know how it got there?” he queried softly.

Hermione ruefully shook her head in reply.

Ron sighed, then swallowed.

“Listen, I—I know we haven’t—haven’t talked as much as we should have, this past year…”

“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to...I just,” he swallowed again, “I just didn’t know where to start.” 

“Thank you for the offer, Ronald, but I don’t  _ want  _ to talk about it, alright? Just drop it.” 

Hermione started to walk back upstairs. But Ron took her arm, gently restraining her. 

“It doesn’t make any sense though,” he continued delicately.

“That curse isn’t supposed to leave any marks—”

Her eyes flashed— “Don’t you think I  _ know  _ that!”

Hermione briefly squeezed her eyes shut, as if she was reliving it all over again. 

Her breathing then started to come in shallow pants. 

“All I remember was her t-torturing me and then I was c-c-close to passing out-t and t-then G-greyback was s-s-standing over me…” 

Teardrops now cascading down her face, she tugged her arm away from Ron’s grasp.

But instead of trying to leave like before, Hermione instead slumped back into the sofa, wrapping her arms around herself.

Undeterred, but unsure how to proceed, he inquired gently, “How’d you know about it then?” 

“I—I heard Fleur that night, before I went to see Dobby’s grave with you lot. She thought I was asleep, but I heard every word.”

“I’m so sorry, Hermione.”

“Don’t be thick,” she replied flatly. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Ron—there wasn’t anything you could do.”

“Then let me help you now.”

“How?”

“I think you already know.”

Hermione firmly shook her head, lips pursed.

“No. Absolutely not, Ronald. I will  _ not  _ put you through that.” 

“I can handle it,” he quipped firmly, before continuing, undaunted. 

“I mean, I was there that night, wasn’t I?” 

She still didn’t look convinced. 

“I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“No, there’s no point—”

“No point, Hermione! For Merlin’s sake, you don’t think I know what happens to you every night you’re here—”

“And how would you know anything about that?”

“I—” he looked down at his feet, the tips of his ears starting to redden. 

“I have…err…nightmares about you—about that night and...I reckoned that, if it was that bad for me, I couldn’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”

The ensuing silence was deafening; only the mournful sound of the surf pounding the shoreline was heard.

“Ron—” she paused to take a steadying breath.

“You've got nothing to be worried about. I’m fine—really.” 

Her voice cracked slightly as she continued.

“I’m alive...maybe a little scarred, but it’s over now. It’s done.”

Ron didn’t buy it for a second.

“But it’s  _ not _ —we both know it. Please, just trust me, Hermione. Please let me help you.” 

His indigo irises seemed to beg for affirmation.

“Ron, I just—” she looked away, then murmured ashamedly, “I don’t think I can go through that again.”

He gently took her hand and squeezed it in response. 

“Maybe, once I see what you have seen, we can face all of that—together.”

Ron saw fear briefly flit across Hermione’s face as she bit her lower lip.

Then, something shifted. Her jaw tightened, and she unfolded her legs, sitting up matter-of-factly.

“There’s one condition, Ron.”

“What’s that?”

“Once you see what I went through that night, I want to see what  _ you  _ saw that night.”

Reluctantly, Ron nodded his consent. 

He locked his eyes onto hers. 

Hermione gave him a tiny, hopeful smile, but he saw her arm start to tremble against the fraying cushions. 

Pointing his wand, he whispered, “ _ Legilimens _ !”

*****


	3. Innocence & Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Ron delve into their worst fears—neither are quite prepared for what they face.

_Memory is a child walking along a seashore; you never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things._

_~ Pierce Harris_

*****

**_Chapter 3: Innocence & Instinct _ **

Immediately, the cottage disappeared, and they were back in the imposing drawing room of Malfoy Manor.

He was now being dragged away from Harry and the others, yanked into the middle of the room by the roots of his hair. 

Bellatrix towered over him, sneering. 

“Where did you get the sword?” 

In vain, he scrambled to think of _something_ —anything.

She raised her wand, and he steeled himself for the inevitable pain. But it didn’t come. 

In amazement, he stared down at himself, watching as his body reacted to the agony he couldn’t feel.

Ron heard shrieking and sobbing, and with a pang, he realised it was coming from the depths of him, somewhere deep inside that he never knew was there.

Lestrange then shrieked another indistinguishable command.

There was a grunt, then coarse laughter as his legs gave out while being dragged to his feet. 

“Don’t worry, I got you girlie.”

A small moan escaped his lips as Bellatrix advanced, finally stopping inches from his face. 

“That’s just a taster, Mudblood. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell me how you got it.”

His brain was being tugged in a million different directions; he had to make something up, try to get her off the scent—

But before he could even finish the thought, the Manor faded and he knew that his thoughts were no longer his own…

Ron heard, as though she were miles from him, “If you’re not going to tell me, missy, then you’re going to have to _show_ me.”

He was now on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, passing by a compartment, when he spotted a youth with flaming orange hair chatting with a frail-looking boy sporting untidy jet-black hair and crooked glasses.

He instantly recognised the infamous Harry Potter, (he had read plenty about him already,) but he found his gaze lingering on the other boy. 

He wanted to impress him in particular, so he started blathering on about all the course books he had learned over the summer. 

To his dismay, the red-headed boy just stared at him in puzzlement.

“I’m Hermione Granger by the way, and—you are?”

“Err…Ron Weasley.”

 _Ron,_ he thought as he turned to head back to his compartment. 

_I hope he’s in Gryffindor..._

The scene disappeared, and he now saw his younger self being clobbered by the White Queen in the catacombs of Hogwarts. 

He cried out as he watched him fall to the ground with a muffled thump. 

“ _Pathetic_ ,” Bellatrix hissed, her wand rising and falling multiple times. But still, the images kept coming…

Now he was looking down at himself in the hospital wing in Hogwarts, the latter muttering quietly. 

“ _Erm-i-o-nee,_ ” he groaned, before turning over on his side. 

His spirits soared as tenderness bloomed inside his chest, feeling happier then he’d ever felt in his life…

“Where. Is. The. SWORD!”

“I don’t know, I don’t _know_!” he wailed. 

He gaped in wonder as his seventeen-year-old self timidly approached, clasping the mangled remains of Voldemort’s locket. 

He saw him open his arms rather gracelessly, and he wondered if this was just another dream…

Bellatrix’s fury broke as the spell sent convulsing shockwaves throughout his body, and he screamed worse than before. 

“How dare you try to conceal—”

Then a truly evil grin lit her gaunt face. 

She then fixed her gaze on him with an undying fervor, and he yelped as images were forcibly flooding his mind—images, he knew, that weren’t from him. 

He saw himself running toward them, and there was a horrid flash of green light before he tumbled to the ground, his prone body thudding with an awful finality, his eyes glassy and barren.

“NOOOOO!” He struggled against his captor, but the wolf held him fast, cackling.

“Where’s your hero now, Mudblood?” Bellatrix leered as she sliced through the air again with her wand. 

“Stop, please—”

Now he saw himself cornered in a dark forest, with Greyback menacing towards him. 

Then there was a blood-curdling yell and a ghastly ripping sound…

“I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?” 

“We found it—we found it—PLEASE!” 

He was now being buffeted with countless horrendous visions, one after the other—Ron being tortured, Ron being killed, Ron being attacked…

“You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!” 

Bellatrix was yelling again, while his strength was dwindling away...

“No,” his words starting to garble and slur.

“I… I don’t know...anything about it, please—LEAVE HIM ALONE!” 

He clutched at his skull, while mentally attempting to shut her out.

“It’ll be his turn when I’m through with you—you know that, don’t you?” 

Bellatrix smirked. 

“Let’s see if we can make ginger scream a little louder, shall we?”

There was an odd sensation of pressure on the back of his neck—sharp nails were sinking into his skin, digging in harder by the second. 

Then there was a mangled, almost inhuman cry for mercy. It did not come.

_I want to die, I want to die….Death is better than this._

Without warning, he was dropped onto his back, and he gasped in pain as his wounds and the ground made direct contact.

Bellatrix sauntered over to him, glaring through her heavy lids.

“I could let him have his way with you, Miss Mudblood—unless you have something to show me.”

The intrusive feeling of Legilimency returned, and he was terrified that he’d reveal something—but he shouldn’t have worried; his visions gravitated around one person.

_I can’t let her do this…_

Suddenly, there was a noise coming from the cellar below, a frantic pounding that seemed to mimic the desperate thumpings of his heart. 

The vibrations tickled his back, and he desperately twisted his head around to find the source. 

But then he heard something else; a low yell, someone screaming his name without end…

Then his own face swam before him, as vivid and sharp as though he were standing right there.

_I have to do this… For Ron...for Ron…_

With a titanic effort, he shut his mind to the cognitive intruder, black spots now dotting his vision. 

With a small sense of satisfaction, he saw Bellatrix stand up, pure shock and anger plastered across her harsh features.

 _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Ron, I love you._

Then nothing.

***

Ron’s grip slackened, and they were back in the living room of Shell Cottage once again. 

A million questions swarmed his brain, but all he was concerned about was Hermione, who had curled into herself, sobbing.

Sickening guilt gnawed at his stomach.

“Hermione, I—I don’t know what to say,” he murmured truthfully. 

He then shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

“But why didn’t I feel—”

“Any pain? You shouldn’t have.”

Through her tears, Hermione glared at the opposing wall, her expression unusually hard.

“Legilimency only extracts emotional and mental memories, not physical—”

Ron embraced her before she could finish, clenching his jaw against the emotion that surged inside him like a near-erupting volcano. 

His touch dissolved her feigned bravado; Hermione was now shaking profusely.

He delicately tucked a strand of runaway bushy hair behind her ear.

“I—I just wanted to help, and now look where we are…”

Hermione picked up her head to stare at him, brown boring into blue. 

“You must think I’m a twit, I just _hate_ being so, so—”

“Utterly brilliant and amazing and the single bravest girl I’ve ever met?”

She inhaled deeply and gave him a small, watery smile. 

“I’ll never regret what I did that night…never. If I had to—I’d do it again—no question.”

“Hermione, I had no idea…as if the Cruciatus curse weren’t enough,” he shook his head with amazement.

“How were you able to shut her out?” 

“Well, it’s obvious isn’t it?” She straightened up against the couch. 

“I rallied when I heard you trying to get to me from the cellar. Thinking about you gave me focus…it always has, Ron.” 

She smiled another modest, tiny, smile.

He was silent, and looking down on her, he was overwhelmed with affection for this woman—his best friend, who had been willing to give up everything she had.

“I just…I can’t believe that you thought of me that whole time Hermione—you never stopped. I mean, bloody hell, you didn’t even think of your parents.”

She looked down at the floorboards, the corners of her mouth still turned up, but now a faint pink hue was creeping onto her cheeks.

“Well—I guess that’s that. I have no more secrets, Ron. I suppose it’s your turn now.”

“What?” It caught him off guard.

“Ron,” Hermione said quietly, but he had already passed her his wand.

While she was speaking, she had unconsciously cocked her head slightly—revealing a thin, jagged cut that glowed white even in the dim light.

“Are you sure you’re ready, Ron?”

He nodded, bracing himself for the impending onslaught of memories. 

“ _Legilimens_!”

***

They were back in the cellar, his bloodied knuckles slamming repeatedly against the unyielding stone. He yelled himself hoarse, oblivious to the bruises that were surely starting to fester under his battered skin.

Hermione screeched again in agony above him—then he got a flash of her laughing, just laughing at one of his many moronic antics. 

Ron continued to pound the impassive slabs in vain, his mind starting to drift…

Hermione now had her hands on his shoulders, and he tried to keep his breathing even as they swept over the dance floor. 

Her lilac-colored dress whispered over the ground, and in one blissful moment, he forgot how bloody clumsy he was, and how uncomfortably tight his dress robes were.

He didn’t care about Krum jealously scowling at them over his glass of champagne; or that soon, much too soon, the three of them would be embarking on the most dangerous mission of their lives…

Ron rushed up the cellar stairs, throwing caution to the winds. He stopped dead when he spotted her, lying prone at Bellatrix’s feet. 

Suddenly, the musty odour of Grimmauld Place overpowered him as he looked up at Hermione, half-asleep. 

“Ron, what if something happens to us tomorrow, what if we—” 

Her distressed whispering broke off abruptly as Ron grabbed her hand, as much for his own reassurance as it was for hers. 

He was now dragging her out from underneath the Malfoys’ chandelier, the brittle shattered remnants mirroring the pulverization of his heart. 

Now he was eleven again, staring at the bushy-haired, rather bossy girl who had her hands on her hips.

“I’m Hermione Granger, and you are…” 

The cellar scene dissolved, and now the room that Ginny and Hermione shared in the cottage came into view. 

The latter had just woken up hyperventilating, sweat cascading from her scalp.

Ron bolted from the chair as though electrically shocked. 

“Shhh…you’re okay, you’re okay…” 

He crawled onto the cot and tenderly gathered her in his arms, starting to rock her. 

Before he knew it, he was quietly crooning the same lullaby that had soothed him since he was a small child.

Gradually, Hermione stilled, her fingers still tightly clutching his shirt.

*****


	4. Hidden Gems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Hermione grapple with the aftermath of what they just witnessed...

_ Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it. _

_ ~ Mark Twain _

_ ***** _

**_Chapter 4: Hidden Gems_ **

Once again, the scene dissipated, but now they were thrust into the present, the fire still crackling gaily in its hearth.

Ron shuddered, his haunted and glazed stare still reflecting the ghost of the agonizing memory. 

“We couldn’t get out…” he choked in a strangled whisper, looking at her pleadingly.

Without speaking, she reached towards him, and he allowed her to hold him. For a moment, his tears mingled with hers. 

“I begged them,” he bleated feebly, continuing to shake uncontrollably.

“I wanted them to take me instead.”

“I know you did, I know—” Her voice cracked. Then her eyes lit up with realization.

“It was  _ you  _ that morning when I woke up…I thought I remembered singing, but I thought I’d been dreaming…Ron, I’m so sorry.” 

“And what in the name of Merlin’s saggy Y-fronts do you have to be sorry for?” he inquired incredulously, dabbing his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater.

“It was  _ her  _ fault, Hermione, that monster’s fault—”

“Yes it was, but—”

“Surely you don’t deny that, d’you? You know better than anyone what she was capable of—”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

Hermione rose to her feet, staring at the glowing embers.

“That night was the first of many where I’d be visited by her in my mind—every damn night she was there, taunting me, never leaving me for a moment's peace.”

She looked up at him, her eyes now brimming with moisture. 

“I hated her, Ron. I loathed everything about her. Actually—”

Her skin flushed with embarrassment.

“When we got to Hogwarts to look for the final Horcruxes, there was a part of me that hoped I’d find her.”

“I hoped I could inflict a tiny piece of the agony that she forced me to endure—I wanted her to have a taste of the hell that I went through.”

“But then, something strange happened. When your Mum finished her off, I felt no triumph, no satisfaction. Those feelings of anger and resentment towards her died when she did.”

Hermione smiled bemusedly at his gaping expression as she continued. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I was glad she couldn’t cause any more suffering...but when I saw her lying there in the Great Hall, I saw how hatred can twist a person—how it kills them slowly from the inside out.”

“I didn’t want to turn out like her, Ron, I really didn’t…you’ve no idea how much I felt like you did when Fred died. You wanted to kill Death Eaters, to avenge his memory.”

She didn’t quite meet his gaze. 

“You had a better reason for wanting to cause someone else pain. I didn’t. I was selfish.”

“So, then what?”

“I decided then and there that I wasn’t going to give her another iota of power over me—I was going to release myself from my own prison.”

Her voice quavered for a moment. 

“She never held that key—I did. And I wanted out.” 

Her hand rose to her neck, her fingertips lightly skimming the fading cut. 

“But after I made my peace, I was still worried about my new scars—about having that reminder.”

“I talked to Harry about it—I reckoned he, of all people, would be able to relate.”

“Then he told me something I’ll never forget; he said, ‘scars show us where we’ve been, but they don’t dictate where we’re going.’ ”

“So—you forgave her, just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Hermione examined Ron with keen interest, as if he were one of her old Ancient Rune assignments that needed to be deciphered before she could make any sense out of it.

“Surprised, are you?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be—I mean you are  _ you _ .”

She beamed, and then sidled up to him, sitting closer to him now. 

“And what d’you mean by that?”

“It proves exactly what my suspicions were in the beginning, Hermione—you see the best in everyone, even in gangly gits like me.”

“That’s fine with me Ron, because you’re  _ my  _ gangly git.” 

With that, her lips found his, and she kissed him with more force than she’d ever kissed him before.

He detached himself after a moment, the shadow of a grin on his face.

Hermione murmured jokingly, “Am I shocking you, Ronald Weasley?”

“No, it’s just…toothpaste.”

Her comic look of confusion made him want to burst out laughing.

“It’s just, with everything that happened tonight—I see your personal hygiene hasn’t been neglected a bit.”

“I suspect being the daughter of bentists—or whatever they’re called, has something to do with it.”

She giggled, and shook her head in mock exasperation. 

“They’re called dentists, Ron,  _ dentists _ .”

Their lips connected again, but this time, he was ready. 

He wound his fingers into her sweet-smelling hair, every pore in his body filling with her intoxicating aroma.

Then Ron pulled back rather unwillingly, panting slightly.

Their damp foreheads now rested against each other, brow on brow.

“That’s…it.”

Ron drew in a shaky breath and wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt.

“I can’t stand this anymore, Hermione. Take it off.”

She pushed herself back on her hands, bewildered.

“Come again?”

“Take it off.”

Hermione’s eyes were blazing, and with a sinking feeling he realised what he’d just said—the exact opposite of what he’d actually meant.

Ron instinctively caught the hand that was meant for his face.

“Let me go—let me  _ go,  _ you absolute  _ arse _ , Ronald Weasley, what makes you think—” she tried to wriggle out of his grip.

“Hermione—Hermione,” he said softly. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Oh really, you masochistic, royal pain in the—”

“I meant the necklace, Hermione.”

“The—”

Her eyes widened, and the struggle ended immediately.

“Ohh. Ron I’m sorry, I just thought—”

There was a moment of embarrassed silence as Hermione, her face reddening, hastily started to undo the clasp of the necklace. 

She then noticed a narrow seam arching down the side of the shell.

“Ron, what is that?”

“Wait.” 

He studied her for a moment, looking at her properly for the first time in nearly a year. 

She had dark purple, bruise-like circles under her eyes, which she attempted to hide with some sort of concealer. 

It blended somewhat with her complexion—but he still wasn’t fooled.  _ Hermione doesn’t need to wear makeup. _

“You know you’re brilliant, right?”

“Ron—”

“Just hear me out, will you?”

She nodded, curiously appraising him.

“You deserve someone so much better than me, Hermione. Someone as clever as you, someone as selfless as you—”

His voice faltered as he gulped, his eyes glistening.

“That night at the Manor, I—I never thought I was going to see you again. But that’s not the worst part.” 

Ron paused pensively.

“I thought you were going to go without knowing how I…” Ron paused again and swallowed.

“H-how I felt—and still feel about you. I reckoned that it should be here, the very place where I thought I’d almost lost you forever, where I should set things right again.” 

Emboldened, Ron continued, his hands now covering hers.

“I’m mad for you, Hermione—I always have been—I know that now.”

“You’re the most important person in my life—and I won’t let anything get in the way of that again.”

He let out a soft  _ whoosh  _ of relief. 

“Blimey, that felt good. I really should’ve done that before, shouldn’t I?”

Ron released her hand, and Hermione slowly slid her fingernail down the seam, opening it with rapt anticipation. 

Her jaw dropped into an astonished ‘o.’ 

For once, she was completely speechless. 

Nestled inside the smooth shelter of the shell was a small, slender ring—silver-banded, with a cerulean sapphire, flanked by two tiny, sparkling diamonds.

“Where did you—how— is that my—?”

“Birthstone? Yeah, it is. They’re pretty rare, those. They’re not made in Britain though, they mainly come from—”

“Australia,” she finished in awe.

“You got this when we went to set my parents’ memories back, didn’t you?”

Ron bobbed his head, gleefully taking in her stunned countenance.

“I did a spot of research to find that out, I figured you’d appreciate that. I’d started looking a while back, and found out where they came from.”

“It was just around then when you asked me to come with you to set your parents straight. The timing couldn’t have been better.”

“Then I looked up some Muggle marriage customs after we set the date for our trip; I read that the bloke is supposed to ask the Dad, before he asked her.”

“So I reckoned I could—err, how does that Muggle saying go...” he trailed off, his brow furrowed in confusion. 

“Kill one bird with two rocks…?”

Hermione disregarded his blatant butchering of Muggle proverbs.

“They knew all along, even Mum?” She questioned indignantly.

“Mhmm. Both of them were thrilled, but it took everything for her to not to drop hints about anything.”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to shake her head in amazement. 

“Ron—you did all of this—the ring, asking Dad, even cracking open a bloody  _ book... _ ”

“All for you, love.” 

Ron then cleared his throat awkwardly. 

“So, errr...” He got off the couch, and clumsily bent to one knee. 

“Hermione Jean Granger, will you marry me?"

“Oh Ron, you stupid, wonderful—” 

She launched herself at him before either could get out another word.

“Is that a yes, then?” he asked playfully, the firelight reflecting merrily off his eyes. 

He reverently slipped the ring onto Hermione's quivering finger.

“It suits you—Mrs. Weasley.”

She squealed and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. 

“I can’t  _ believe  _ I had this around my neck the whole time…” 

The lingering darkness that had previously eclipsed her gaze was obliterated in one sweeping instant.

“But,” she smiled slowly, “you know you’re still a git, right?”

“S’ all right, because I’m  _ your  _ git.” 

With an impish grin, he snogged her senseless, shattering her thoughts into scores and scores of tiny shards.

*****


	5. A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the big reveal, Ron goes to visit an old friend one last time...

_To heal is to touch with love that which was previously touched by fear._

_~ Stephen Levine_

*****

**_Chapter 5: A New Beginning_ **

  
  


Ron carefully sat up—trying to not upset the dozing form of his new fiancé. 

He took in the smoldering ashes of their fire; the rosy, early rays of dawn had now started to seep into the quietly awakening room. 

In quiet fascination, he observed Hermione's chest rise and fall steadily underneath the layers of quilts she’d been entwined in during the night, her breath making a small whistling sound.

***

“What do Muggles do after they propose, Hermione?” he had asked as they lounged by the still-crackling hearth, her head warming his chest.

Her face scrunched up in such an endearing way that it took all his self-control to not start snogging her again.

“I dunno,” She mused as she lightly outlined his jaw with her fingertips, “Go ‘round, telling everyone they know? 

Hermione continued to scrutinize him—as if she were trying to permanently etch his every feature into her mind’s eye. 

Then they talked, _really_ talked. 

Ron was bursting with questions about her upbringing, and he listened closely to every detail—committing certain parts to memory, so he could share them later with his insatiably inquisitive father. 

Then he filled her in on stories that he’d been too shy to share before; like the time when he was seven and Ginny convinced him to try on their Mum’s lipstick—then planting it in Fred and George’s room to deflect their fault. 

They laughed and laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks, until their sides ached from the spasms of mirth that were wracking their bodies.

At times, they had to clamp their hands over their mouths to prevent the steady stream of snickering that would have surely woken the others.

***

Back in the present, the muse of inspiration had murmured into his ear. Ron gently unwound his arm from around Hermione’s waist and snuck back into his and Harry’s room. 

He rummaged around for a moment, before finally finding what he’d been searching for.

It was an old flannel shirt of his, which hadn’t been washed since the night he’d last used it. 

He pressed the fibers to his nostrils, which still reeked of tears, sweat, and the tell-tale metallic tang of blood.

Ron briefly surveyed the small scarlet stain that had been spilled on it.

Just like that, another memory flashed across his consciousness—as swift and unprecedented as lightning.

***

“Ron, it _hurts_ ,” Hermione whimpered, as something dark dripped from her neck onto the wet sand. 

“I know, I know, but I’m going to make it better, ‘kay?” His voice cracked from the strain.

She nodded, and winced. 

Fury exploded inside of him as he noticed how her eyes were filmed over with a thick haze of confusion and pain.

He picked her up as though she were a delicate soap bubble ready to pop, and headed toward the house.

“You saved me.” 

Ron looked down at her, startled.

“You saved me,” Hermione mumbled again, and she turned over, snuggling deeper into his jacket.

Then he felt her steady breathing, and knew she’d fallen asleep at last.

Ron laid her tenderly on the mattress. 

But suddenly, her breathing wasn’t so normal anymore. 

Hermione's eyes moved rapidly under their lids, beads of perspiration forming on her temple.

“No—please stop—STOP!” Her feeble frame was now writhing from some unseen terror. 

He couldn’t stand to see her like this. Where was that witty, gently teasing Hermione who could out-duel him with both arms tied behind her back? 

Ron pondered this while stroking her fingers with his thumb, back and forth, back and forth.

She finally stirred, and jerked awake with a shrill shriek.

“Hermione, what is it?”

But she didn’t seem to hear him—“Where am I—how did I get here?”

Hermione tried to get up, but he put a hand on her shoulder to hold her back.

He leaned over her, and a part of him died as he saw her eyes darting wildly around the room in anguish.

“It’s me, Hermione, it’s just me. We’re at Bill and Fleurs’—we’re safe now.”

“But how did we escape? You and Harry were in the cellar, you couldn’t get out—”

She started crying weakly.

Ron felt pressure welling up behind his eyes, but he forced it away.

“It’s a long story, but the point is—you’re safe now.” 

He reached across her and lovingly wiped away the damp tracks that had wound their way down her cheeks—fast flowing rivers of despair.

“They can’t hurt you anymore. I’d die before I’d let them do anything else to you, alright?”

He took her face in his hands. There was a creak as Fleur came into the room, carrying a small purple potion. 

“ ’Ow eez she?” 

Ron didn’t answer. 

“Fleur’s going to help you now, ok?”

He started to get up, but Hermione grabbed his hand.

“You'll stay close, right?”

“Hermione,” he smiled wearily, “Where else am I going to go?”

Visibly relieved, she settled down onto the sheets.

Ron carefully shut the door behind him, and slowly made his way to the desolate, duned cliffs that overlooked the churning turquoise water.

Alone with his thoughts, he crumpled to his knees—finally succumbing to the grief and regret that blurred his vision and snatched the air right out of his lungs.

***

Still holding the shirt, he slipped past a still-snoring Harry, down the stairs, through the living room, and out past the garden.

Halting in front of the grave, he squatted down and neatly folded the cloth, tucking it under a corner of the tombstone. 

Ron straightened up, then thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

“Dobby—I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you did for us. I’ll never forget it, and neither will she. You’re the real hero, and you always will be.”

The salty air stirred, and he swallowed. 

“Without you, I wouldn't have—”

“Ron?” Hermione called from the doorway, bidding him to return.

“Be right there—”

He lowered his voice, emotion starting to clog and constrict his windpipe.

Ron crouched, pressing his palm to the weathered stone. 

“Without you—I wouldn’t have gotten a second chance.”

He stood up, soaking in the fiery sunlight that was now caressing his limbs. 

Ron gave the mound one final look, and again he noticed the tiny flowers that had sprung up from the dirt.

_Forget-me-nots, her favourite._

He plucked several, tucking one into his chest pocket for good measure. 

Ron then turned towards the cottage, humming as he unhurriedly strode into his future, unburdened and unafraid.

***

_You cannot amputate your history from your destiny, because that is redemption._

_~ Beth Moore_

  
  


*****

  
  



End file.
